


Three Performances

by labellerose



Category: Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:56:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labellerose/pseuds/labellerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Percy married a woman of many talents, who can use them for good or...?  A glimpse of Marguerite St Just's career, in three acts</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Performances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hungrytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungrytiger/gifts).



> Thank you for this lovely prompt. You asked for slices of life, and the Scarlet Pimpernel. I hope you enjoy these vignettes half as much as I enjoyed writing them for you.

Paris, January 1789  
Jean Baptiste de Mont-Pahon ( though he was not, strictly speaking entitled to the 'de', it added a certain cachet to his professional name) had a problem.  
He needed to cast an actress. One might think this should pose no problem for the artistic director of the Comedie Francaise. There must be a score of eager young lovelies that he or Bernard (professionally known as Phillipe Valme), his leading man, could audition in their beds and discard next season. A newer ingénue or soubrette would come along. Ah, but he'd done that last year, and the subsequent production of Tartuffe had ....not been a success. The wretched girl couldn't carry a role that required her to get off her back and actually deliver lines. Bernard had been bored and his performance lacked fire. A lackluster leading man and a boring leading lady meant empty seats and fewer coins flowing into the theater's coffers. 

That could not be permitted again. This time, Jean-Baptiste would mount a production of Le Misanthrope that would astound tout Paris, with a revitalized Bernard commanding the stage as Alceste and a strong foil playing playing opposite him as Celimene, He must now find new intriguing young actress that Paris would hasten to see.   
So today he was seated in an empty theater, putting a string of hopefuls through their paces.  
It had not been going well. This one was too tall for Bernard. That one couldn't project. Several others could moue and simper, but were obviously more interested in making sure their charms were seen in the orchestra circle than in bringing Moliere's characters to life.

"How many more before lunch, Henri?" Jean Baptiste whispered to his stage manager.

"Only one," Henri answered. Another young actress stepped out of the wings, and handed Bernard, seated downstage, sheets of foolscap with his lines. And then Jean-Baptiste heard That Voice. It was a full golden soprano, effortlessly supported, that filled the house without resorting to shouting. The voice came from a young woman-scarcely more than a girl with an aureole of un-powdered red-gold hair. Her face, once he took a second look at it (for an actress's defects could always be corrected with maquillage) was lovely and still fresh , without the marks of dissipation all too often seen in women who must make their way through Paris. Her graceful figure was well proportioned but not, thankfully, taller than Bernard, who had risen from his seat as she entered.   
Her audition piece was something out of the common as well-not a comedy but a climactic scene from a an Corneille's Le Cid in which Chimene confesses her love for Rodrigue, to her king. Everyone in the theatre knew the play, and followed along as the two players spoke. Jean Baptiste's jaw dropped as Bernard, electrified strode about stage declaiming as if performing for a packed house. 

At the end, Bernard extended his hand and brought the unknown actress forward for a bow.  
Jean-Baptiste waited for the empty theatre to return to its accustomed hush.

"A fine performance," he said at last. "Though a somewhat unusual selection"

"I find Chimene and Celimene to have some features in common, M'sieu." replied the unknown.

"And do you, Mademoiselle, think you can play comedy as well as tragedy?" Jean-Baptiste inquired.

"What is life, if not a comedy, M'sieu?" she answered. A faint titter was heard from the wings.

Jean-Baptiste signaled Henri to hand him today's roster of hopeful actresses. It would not do to show too much interest too soon. "And what might be your name , Mademoiselle?"

"St Just, Monsieur. " She swept him a graceful curtsey. Marguerite Francoise St. Just"

"Tres bien. Come back tomorrow, Mlle St Just at-shall we say- two in the afternoon? I'll have you read with other members of my company to see if we can use you."  
Inwardly, Jean-Baptiste rejoiced. Here, fresh from the provinces and playing bit roles in his own company might be the solution to his present difficulty. A pretty face, a voice like an angel and that indefinable presence- that je ne sais quoi-to hold an audience's attention. The wit to deliver Moliere's immortal lines as they should be spoken, and the cleverness to tease him a little, pardieu. What was more, the girl seemingly had not yet acquired a protector. She wore no jewels and her dress, although clean and well fitting was obviously not the work of a modiste of the first stare. This meant, O blessed day, no sprig of the nobility threatening to withhold his family's patronage if Mademoiselle did not receive suitable roles. Oh yes, this one had possibilities.

Paris , March 1788

It was a long way from convent schools Marguerite Francoise mused as she waited in the green room. Darling Armand did not approve of her career but - mon cher, she had told him kindly I have no dowry, no-one will hire me as a governess I have too much education to be a chambermaid, so the only paths open to me are 'actress' or 'kept woman'. Which would you rather I became? " Armand had muttered something about the two being much the same.  
Perhaps for other women, not for her. She would no man's plaything to be cast aside at whim. A new era was dawning in France, a new age of freedom and equality and ideals. Marguerite Francoise was determined to forge a place there. And tonight was her debut.   
She could hear voices from the stage as fellow actors spoke their line. The audience's laughter was like the rush of the sea as some bit of stage business or ever double entendre caught their fancy. Marguerite Francoise drew a deep breath. She was going to keep the laughing, oh yes. 

Henri knocked on the door and put his head inside. 

"Allons, Mlle. St Just" he said, not unkindly. He'd chaperoned many a nervous performer to her debut and gave her a reassuring smile.   
Marguerite Francoise wiped her hand on her skirt and followed him obediently to the wings, turning slightly so the panniers on her costume would not discommode the painted backdrop. She walked, soft-footed downstage to her mark and smiled nervously at M. Valme (Bernard, voyons!) , her Alceste. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Bonne Chance, p'tite" he said softly.

As the curtain rose, Marguerite picked up her skirt in her upstage hand, pivoted on her heel for a three-quarter turn and lifted her head. Her golden voice soared through the proscenium arch as she spoke her first lines. Gradually the packed theatre fell silent as the audience fell under her spell.

In luxurious private box, an English gentleman lounged at his ease, prepared to while away a pleasant evening being entertained. As Marguerite's voice filled the house, he raised his gold quizzing glass to his face and leaned forward in his chair. "Demme" Sir Percy Blakeney muttered to himself. "Demme, what a woman."  
Marguerite St Just got 3 curtain calls that night.

Government House, London, September 1792

Marguerite, Lady Blakeney, waited in the conservatory as her carriage was brought around to take her home from Lord Grenville's ball. The night's events played mercilessly behind her closed eyelids. There was no denying that she'd used every scrap of acting talent she possessed-to betray every principle she'd ever held dear. 

And you swore you'd never be a whore, she thought bitterly to herself. But what of this night's work? She'd put an innocent man-nay more than an innocent man- a brave, selfless hero into Armand Chauvelin's power. She was just as much a whore as if she'd lain with every English Milor in the card room. In the teeth of their wives, come to that. And for what? Yes, she'd stooped to this betrayal for her beloved brother's sake, but what would Armand say if he knew that the price of his life was sending the Scarlet Pimpernel to the guillotine? She shuddered at the thought of the horror and revulsion she would see in his eyes if he ever found out.

And Percy, Percy her husband- what of him? Well, she thought with a touch of Gallic resignation, she'd seen enough horror and revulsion from Percy to last her a lifetime, after he'd learnt of her role in the fate of the Marquis de St Cyr. She'd been duped then, she'd been forced now, but would he understand? Marguerite doubted it. Tant pis He could hardly despise her more than he already did. She wondered how she'd sit beside him on the drive back to Richmond without betraying her anguish. Suddenly, Marguerite felt very, very tired. She leaned back in a graceful chair, eyes still closed, until there was a brief touch to her hand and Blakeney's careless drawl told her the horses were ready .

Carleton House , London 1793 

The Prince of Wales' opulent town residence was brightly lit for a night's festivity. There was a babel of greeting as gleaming coaches and smart barouches discharged fashionably dressed notables into the forecourt. The Prince's boon companion, Percy Blakeney, handled the reins with consummate skill as his team swept into the driveway . He pulled up, tossed the reins to his groom and stepped down, offering a hand to help his companion alight. 

Marguerite took her husband's arm and strolled with him toward the entrance. Percy inclined his head and spoke for her ears alone as they mounted the steps.  
"I must speak with Ffoulkes and Bathurst alone before this night is out" he murmured softly. "Without alerting Kulmstead and Devinne that anything is toward."

’'What would you have me do?" Marguerite replied.

"HRH will keep them by him at need but I'd rather not use his services except in direst need. Too much of a compromise in foreign relations if he is seen to help the League."

"What would you have of me, then?"

Percy smiled. "La m'dear, use that magic which God has given to your sex. Convince one or both that they are the most fascinating beings in shoe leather and you'd be desolate without their company. Can you?"

"I think so. You did marry an actress, Percy."


End file.
